February 25, 2005
I've introduced a new category for our animals and their impact...
It wouldn't be right if I didn't start with Soren. He was an amazing dog.
In his early years, I discoverd that he had a lot of energy. He also had a lot of affection. One day I went into the shower, and left the door open. Shortly after, I turned around to find this little Dane puppy in the shower. He patiently waited for me to finish. I never gave him cause to dislike the tub. As he grew, he had a bath every week. He learned a number of words like "turn around", "wait", etc. He was great at taking a bath. I would ask him if he was ready to take a bath, and he would simply walk in and get in the tub. He never complained or whined.
I have so many stories about Soren, they can't possibly be told in one post. So, I'll keep it to a story-by-story basis.
Soren's best friend was a black Lab named Duke. They spent a lot of time together. We met Duke'spets owners when Soren was in obedience class. They were behind him during a walk where Soren decided to take a dump. Per the class rules, I tried to clean it up. They gave me one piece of paper towel. He's a Dane. It takes a roll. Duke looked at him like "what am I supposed to do? He has spoiled the whole trail!" It was a terrible experience, but it preceeded meeting some of the best friends I have: the Hushaws.
After making friends with the Hushaws, Soren spent more and more time with them. When I went to school, I would drop him off in Duke's kennel, and they would play all day long. Soren decided their home was an extension to his own home (another story).
One time before Christmas, we invited Duke to spend the weekend with us. The Hushaws thought it was wierd, but then, we were a little wierd, so what the heck. We dressed the dogs up in all sorts of stuff, and took pictures. Ultimately, we found the best picture was just them being friends.
Dog's best friend
It wouldn't be right if I didn't start with Soren. He was an amazing dog.
In his early years, I discoverd that he had a lot of energy. He also had a lot of affection. One day I went into the shower, and left the door open. Shortly after, I turned around to find this little Dane puppy in the shower. He patiently waited for me to finish. I never gave him cause to dislike the tub. As he grew, he had a bath every week. He learned a number of words like "turn around", "wait", etc. He was great at taking a bath. I would ask him if he was ready to take a bath, and he would simply walk in and get in the tub. He never complained or whined.
I have so many stories about Soren, they can't possibly be told in one post. So, I'll keep it to a story-by-story basis.
Soren's best friend was a black Lab named Duke. They spent a lot of time together. We met Duke's
After making friends with the Hushaws, Soren spent more and more time with them. When I went to school, I would drop him off in Duke's kennel, and they would play all day long. Soren decided their home was an extension to his own home (another story).
One time before Christmas, we invited Duke to spend the weekend with us. The Hushaws thought it was wierd, but then, we were a little wierd, so what the heck. We dressed the dogs up in all sorts of stuff, and took pictures. Ultimately, we found the best picture was just them being friends.
I took this picture and had it blown up. Matted it and built a frame for it. We gave it to the Hushaws for Christmas. Hands down, this is the most significant gift I’ve ever given. Both dogs have now passed away. They are still missed, and thought of fondly. It’s a travesty that dogs don’t live as long as we do. Sometimes you make a friend that you just want to live forever.
Dog's best friend
My human neighbors are great. During some very difficult times they have been totally there for me. I have some four legged neighbors, though, that talk even more to me. When I'm out in the morning drinking my coffee, they tell me all about their lives and the problems they have. It brings me a great deal of peace and happiness... This is Zoe (before I actually met a person named Zoe). She has a boyfriend named Spike, but that was last year. He'll probably need a new name this year. Is there a name for Duo-Spike?
In touch with the fauna
In touch with the fauna
I often repeat myself in an attempt to make sure I'm understood and my directions are followed. Brush your teeth. Brush your teeth. Brush your teeth. Daddy, you always tell me that, I know. Well, honey, you aren't doing it, so I feel I have to remind you...
These good intentions can backfire, though. As much as we like routine, we do find times for deviating. The other day I had an egg sandwich: bread, egg, slice of cheese, and mustard. True to her mother's family's nature, she wanted a bite (I get no food completely to myself). She liked it, and wanted it for breakfast. The next morning, that's what she had. However, she decided she wanted it again for the next morning, but no cheese.
Can't help messing with her sometimes.
These good intentions can backfire, though. As much as we like routine, we do find times for deviating. The other day I had an egg sandwich: bread, egg, slice of cheese, and mustard. True to her mother's family's nature, she wanted a bite (I get no food completely to myself). She liked it, and wanted it for breakfast. The next morning, that's what she had. However, she decided she wanted it again for the next morning, but no cheese.
Scene 1: Night time, before bed.
Annie: Daddy, I don't want cheese on me egg sandwich.
Daddy: I know. You've told me. Go to sleep.
Annie: You always tell me that.
Scene 2: The next morning.
Daddy: Gets out of bed, begins the morning chores.
Annie: Daddy, I don't want cheese on my sandwich.
Daddy: I know. You told me.
Daddy comes in from feeding dog.
Annie: Daddy, don't put cheese on my sandwich.
Daddy: I know, you told me.
Daddy comes back from putting Annie's clothes in the dryer to warm up - don't ask.
Annie: Daddy, no cheese on my sandwich, please.
Daddy: I know, you told me.
Daddy comes back from packin Annie's backpack.
Annie: Daddy, have you started my sandwich? NO CHEESE.
Daddy: I know, you told me.
Daddy comes through after going through the morning bathroom er... deposit.
Annie: Daddy, please don't put cheese on my egg sandwich.
Daddy: I know, you told me.
Daddy comes in after having made the sandwich sans cheese.
Daddy: Annie, your breakfast is ready. You need to feed the cats and eat your breakfast. I made it just like you requested: extra cheese.
Annie: WHAT! Daddy, are you kidding?
Daddy: Yes, I'm kidding. You said it so many times, I just couldn't help saying that.
Annie: Humph.
Can't help messing with her sometimes.
February 24, 2005
February 23, 2005
Our current dog Tolkien is intellectually challenged, so I have little concern that he will read this and be offended.
As a kid, I had a number of dogs that were important to me, and played a significant part in my growing up. Sam, the border collie, protected me in my early years. He accompanied me at three to four years old when I thought I was going to run away. When we moved to town, he jumped our fence no matter how high it was. He couldn't stand to live in town (I know the feeling), and had to be placed with a family that could give him the freedom he needed. Bandit was a blue-tick mutt. He was great. He accompanied me on my miles-long horse rides and every dog on the way backed down from him, despite his small stature. Of course, that might have had something to do with the fact that after a couple of years, most of the young dogs we encountered looked a lot like him. But despite all of this, no dog can match the dedication and connection I had with Soren Kierkegaard Hockanson.
Soren was a Blue Merle Great Dane. He was the most intelligent dog I've ever encountered. He was the ultimate dog. I came upon him quite by accident. My mom was in the hospital to have a tumor removed from her pituitary gland, and while waiting in her room, I was going through the paper. I had wanted a dog, and knew that I had a tendency for giant breeds. This lady had decided to breed her Great Dane. After making sure that mom was ok, and cool with me leaving, I went to see the lady with the Great Danes. I was in love. The first Dane I wanted was a Boston (color). Fortunately, it walked up to me and urinated on the floor. I turned to the next dog. It was grey with black spots. It was happy, and seemed to be in more control of its bladder.
I bought him for the astronomical price of $200. (You don't want to know what I paid for Tolkien.) I'd never bought a dog before, and thought I must be insane. At less than three months old, he fit comfortable on the floor of the S10 pickup I had at the time. He grew out of that rather quickly. My life with Soren was very involved, and I hope to give Soren stories from time to time. Mainly, because Annie became very attached to him, and I hope some day she reads these ramblings and sees what I saw...
Rembering a great friend
As a kid, I had a number of dogs that were important to me, and played a significant part in my growing up. Sam, the border collie, protected me in my early years. He accompanied me at three to four years old when I thought I was going to run away. When we moved to town, he jumped our fence no matter how high it was. He couldn't stand to live in town (I know the feeling), and had to be placed with a family that could give him the freedom he needed. Bandit was a blue-tick mutt. He was great. He accompanied me on my miles-long horse rides and every dog on the way backed down from him, despite his small stature. Of course, that might have had something to do with the fact that after a couple of years, most of the young dogs we encountered looked a lot like him. But despite all of this, no dog can match the dedication and connection I had with Soren Kierkegaard Hockanson.
Soren was a Blue Merle Great Dane. He was the most intelligent dog I've ever encountered. He was the ultimate dog. I came upon him quite by accident. My mom was in the hospital to have a tumor removed from her pituitary gland, and while waiting in her room, I was going through the paper. I had wanted a dog, and knew that I had a tendency for giant breeds. This lady had decided to breed her Great Dane. After making sure that mom was ok, and cool with me leaving, I went to see the lady with the Great Danes. I was in love. The first Dane I wanted was a Boston (color). Fortunately, it walked up to me and urinated on the floor. I turned to the next dog. It was grey with black spots. It was happy, and seemed to be in more control of its bladder.
I bought him for the astronomical price of $200. (You don't want to know what I paid for Tolkien.) I'd never bought a dog before, and thought I must be insane. At less than three months old, he fit comfortable on the floor of the S10 pickup I had at the time. He grew out of that rather quickly. My life with Soren was very involved, and I hope to give Soren stories from time to time. Mainly, because Annie became very attached to him, and I hope some day she reads these ramblings and sees what I saw...
Well, Soren lived for eleven long and wonderful years. That’s a long time for a Dane, for those who don’t know. He and I survived two failed marriages, and a lot of wonderful times. I used to skip school (sorry, Dr. Drewniak) to go fishing and swimming with Soren. Annie thought he was her best friend (he was her dog). It’s hard having a pet that has a short life span, but he gave more than anyone can imagine. When I was having emotional times, bowing at my bed in an effort to reach someone who was supposed to be watching out for me, here comes Soren nuzzling under my arm, and slobbering on my face. He helped me get through so much, I can’t explain it. Granted, the screen is getting strangely blurry here, but I’ll end it by saying that his last breath was drawn trying to make me happy. I ensure you that I will have stories to share to make you chuckle from Soren.
I wonder if I’ll ever have a connection like that with another individual…
Rembering a great friend
When I was a kid, I ran everywhere barefoot. I climbed trees, ran down the gravel road, you name it. When I was about nine, I jumped out of the cherry tree outside our backyard and landed on a branch. I shoved a five inch wide and four inch long stick into my foot. Ok, it was about 1/8" wide and about 1/4" long... literally. I hurt like you wouldn't believe. I'd had a history of thorns and slivers and my dad always pulled them out with the utmost diligence. This time, he couldn't do it. I had to go to the doctor. After a shot in the foot with some useless painkiller, he sliced my foot open with your generic razor blade. I could feel it go through the flesh of my foot. It was terrible.
It was nothing compared to what I just experienced.
When Annie has had splinters in the past, I've always managed to get them out with a minimal amount of emotional scarring. Tonight? I'm not so sure. We were giving each other a high five, and she said "ow". Maybe it was more like "OWWWWW!" This began the one hour adventure that was the removal of a splinter. I went and got the small sewing kit with a needle that would remove the offending splinter (isn't that what my dad did?). She freaked. No. The splinter would wait until morning. No, sweetie, it must come out now. Wait! Wait! I have to tell you something. (This phrase was issued seventeen times during the trial.)
I tried to show her how to press the splinter out of her hand. I had become very good at this following the razor incident. No dice. She couldn't get it to budge. I was forced to use Daddy power to tell her that I had to get it out. In a midst of tears and "I have to tell you something" she asked (for the fourth time) that I try to just press it out. Praise God, I did. The redwood sized splinter came out, and our tears were over in a manner of minutes (mine and hers). She decided to call her mommy and tell her about it. After which, she fell asleep in record time. Emotional trauma always calls for sleep.
God, please watch over my angel, and let her not get any more splinters...
Not that kind of doctor
It was nothing compared to what I just experienced.
When Annie has had splinters in the past, I've always managed to get them out with a minimal amount of emotional scarring. Tonight? I'm not so sure. We were giving each other a high five, and she said "ow". Maybe it was more like "OWWWWW!" This began the one hour adventure that was the removal of a splinter. I went and got the small sewing kit with a needle that would remove the offending splinter (isn't that what my dad did?). She freaked. No. The splinter would wait until morning. No, sweetie, it must come out now. Wait! Wait! I have to tell you something. (This phrase was issued seventeen times during the trial.)
I tried to show her how to press the splinter out of her hand. I had become very good at this following the razor incident. No dice. She couldn't get it to budge. I was forced to use Daddy power to tell her that I had to get it out. In a midst of tears and "I have to tell you something" she asked (for the fourth time) that I try to just press it out. Praise God, I did. The redwood sized splinter came out, and our tears were over in a manner of minutes (mine and hers). She decided to call her mommy and tell her about it. After which, she fell asleep in record time. Emotional trauma always calls for sleep.
God, please watch over my angel, and let her not get any more splinters...
Not that kind of doctor
Can't help it. I have one more brief post.
Our English Mastiff, Tolkien Salinger Hockanson, is like one of those people who wants to be terribly polite, but still would really like to do what he wants.
I defrosted the chicken for tonight in the microwave. After placing it on the grill, I thought he might like to take the cooked fat off the plate. I showed him the plate, and he took a tentative taste. His tail wagged ninety-to-nothing. But, then he stopped. "No, I'm done, thank you." I began to take the plate away. "Well, if no one else wants it, maybe one more taste." He cleaned the plate. He seemed to be done. "Maybe one more check." Ok, now he was eating the plate, so I took it away.
What I don't understand is with that mentality, how could he seek and devour the pizza Annie and I orderd the other night. We made the mistake of walking away for a few minutes while he was in the house. Yeah, I know. Idiot. We came back in, and the pizza was gone, but Tolkien was on his bed. The tail was waggin' hard, and there was the last piece of pepperoni and black-olive on his bed.
Should keep away from animal husbandry
Our English Mastiff, Tolkien Salinger Hockanson, is like one of those people who wants to be terribly polite, but still would really like to do what he wants.
I defrosted the chicken for tonight in the microwave. After placing it on the grill, I thought he might like to take the cooked fat off the plate. I showed him the plate, and he took a tentative taste. His tail wagged ninety-to-nothing. But, then he stopped. "No, I'm done, thank you." I began to take the plate away. "Well, if no one else wants it, maybe one more taste." He cleaned the plate. He seemed to be done. "Maybe one more check." Ok, now he was eating the plate, so I took it away.
What I don't understand is with that mentality, how could he seek and devour the pizza Annie and I orderd the other night. We made the mistake of walking away for a few minutes while he was in the house. Yeah, I know. Idiot. We came back in, and the pizza was gone, but Tolkien was on his bed. The tail was waggin' hard, and there was the last piece of pepperoni and black-olive on his bed.
Should keep away from animal husbandry
I'm so pleased that Annie is choosing close friends that are smart. We just got a phone call from Colleen. She has memorized our phone number. I confess, even though we work on it, Annie doesn't know our phone number. While I was waiting for Annie to come to the phone, I heard Colleen's sisters ask her what she was doing, and of course, she told them... including the phone number.
And no, she 's not getting a cell phone...
Feeling old
And no, she 's not getting a cell phone...
Feeling old
Annie has discovered numbers beyond 100. She is still working on the patterns of the numbers, and what makes something x hundred whatever. This is further complicated by the microwave, which she enters numbers on when we are cooking/defrosting. Of course, those numbers are in minutes and seconds, even though there is no obvious distinction on the oven. Blast it...
At any rate, for the past couple of weeks, she likes to see what page I'm on in whatever book happens to end up on the nightstand. She intitially would say "two-hundred and twenty-three". This is a common thing for folks to say. Heck, I mess up and do it too, sometimes. But, what better time to break a bad habit. So, I told her "Actually, it's two-hundred twenty-three... no and. When an and shows up in a number it means something else, and we'll cover that later." She accepted this, and has been doing well with it.
She really seems to have an aptitude for math, which makes her engineer-father very happy. She was making complex color-patterns with her fruit snacks before she was four. So, naturally she has some confidence in this area. I shouldn't have been surprised this morning when her teacher approached me with a smile and informed me "thanks, I've been regularly getting in trouble lately". A plethora of fears ran through my mind about what my usually angelic, but some sometimes devilish child may have done. She then explained that Annie is quick to correct her when she uses and in numbers. I was back to being proud. The teacher seemed very pleased with Annie's insistence on the matter, and prophesied that Annie would have her trained by the end of the year. With a quizzical expression she wondered why her fourth-graders hadn't caught and trained her on this...
Expanding polynomials of pride
At any rate, for the past couple of weeks, she likes to see what page I'm on in whatever book happens to end up on the nightstand. She intitially would say "two-hundred and twenty-three". This is a common thing for folks to say. Heck, I mess up and do it too, sometimes. But, what better time to break a bad habit. So, I told her "Actually, it's two-hundred twenty-three... no and. When an and shows up in a number it means something else, and we'll cover that later." She accepted this, and has been doing well with it.
She really seems to have an aptitude for math, which makes her engineer-father very happy. She was making complex color-patterns with her fruit snacks before she was four. So, naturally she has some confidence in this area. I shouldn't have been surprised this morning when her teacher approached me with a smile and informed me "thanks, I've been regularly getting in trouble lately". A plethora of fears ran through my mind about what my usually angelic, but some sometimes devilish child may have done. She then explained that Annie is quick to correct her when she uses and in numbers. I was back to being proud. The teacher seemed very pleased with Annie's insistence on the matter, and prophesied that Annie would have her trained by the end of the year. With a quizzical expression she wondered why her fourth-graders hadn't caught and trained her on this...
Expanding polynomials of pride
February 22, 2005
This particular category is afforded to allow me to climb up on an oak or hickory stump and expound on what I think are injustices. I read/sense that women constantly have to work to achieve respect in society and, in particular, in the work place. I'd like to vent a moment on the male/father side...
Has anyone actually watched a commercial lately? I'm a single father in charge of everything. Even when I was married, I played a vital role in every decision made. And yet, advertisers portray fathers/husbands as being morons. I understand where it comes from. For years the advertising community created commercials/ads targeting the males. Then, in the '70s or so, they researched and found that it was common that the wives/mothers did the shopping, and turned the advertising direction that way.
I'm an electrical engineer. I see this as being an under-damped system. This is like a pendulum that swings each way, and each time swings a little less to the other side. Like the women I read about that are taking care of kids, I fight tooth-and-nail for the flexibility to make sure that I can walk Annie up the hill to school, and pick her up after daycare. I've had job opportunities that offered more, but wouldn't entertain them given the flexibility that my current job offers.
So, why is it that 90% of commercials (ok, that's a guess, I could do a statistical analysis if necessary), depict the male in a household to be an idiot? They are portrayed as lazy, stupid, and uninvolved. Frankly, if women really believe that, why would they ever have relationships? If women really respond to that, I will be devistated. If anyone ever suggested that my wife (ok, wives) were less than brilliant, I'd have been all over them (granted, it's ok now). At any rate, I can't believe that women could possibly be intrigued by that. Why would you (if you were involved with a man and jointly making buying decisions), find that compelling?
So, if there are advertising people out there who care about what a middle-classed male would be persuaded to buy, you've been failing. I actually choose products against you if you portray me as a father in an unflattering light. I'm dedicated and aware about what goes on in my family's life. Perhaps it is unorthodox, but if you discount me, you'll feel it... one purchase at a time.
Doing my best
Has anyone actually watched a commercial lately? I'm a single father in charge of everything. Even when I was married, I played a vital role in every decision made. And yet, advertisers portray fathers/husbands as being morons. I understand where it comes from. For years the advertising community created commercials/ads targeting the males. Then, in the '70s or so, they researched and found that it was common that the wives/mothers did the shopping, and turned the advertising direction that way.
I'm an electrical engineer. I see this as being an under-damped system. This is like a pendulum that swings each way, and each time swings a little less to the other side. Like the women I read about that are taking care of kids, I fight tooth-and-nail for the flexibility to make sure that I can walk Annie up the hill to school, and pick her up after daycare. I've had job opportunities that offered more, but wouldn't entertain them given the flexibility that my current job offers.
So, why is it that 90% of commercials (ok, that's a guess, I could do a statistical analysis if necessary), depict the male in a household to be an idiot? They are portrayed as lazy, stupid, and uninvolved. Frankly, if women really believe that, why would they ever have relationships? If women really respond to that, I will be devistated. If anyone ever suggested that my wife (ok, wives) were less than brilliant, I'd have been all over them (granted, it's ok now). At any rate, I can't believe that women could possibly be intrigued by that. Why would you (if you were involved with a man and jointly making buying decisions), find that compelling?
So, if there are advertising people out there who care about what a middle-classed male would be persuaded to buy, you've been failing. I actually choose products against you if you portray me as a father in an unflattering light. I'm dedicated and aware about what goes on in my family's life. Perhaps it is unorthodox, but if you discount me, you'll feel it... one purchase at a time.
Doing my best